“Bring us coffee for two, Ouardi, biscuits”—­she
glanced at her visitor—­“bon-bons,
yes, the bon-bons in the white box, and the cigars.
And take the soldier with you and entertain him well.
Give him whatever he likes.”

Ouardi went away with the soldier, talking frantically,
and Domini returned to the tent, where she found the
priest gleaming with joyous anticipation. They
sat down in the comfortable basket chairs before the
tent door, through which they could see the shining
of the city’s lights and hear the distant sound
of its throbbing and wailing music.

“My husband has gone to see the city,”
Domini said after she had told the priest her name
and been informed that his was Max Beret.

“We only arrived this evening.”

“I know, Madame.”

He beamed on her, and stroked his thick beard with
his broad, sunburnt hand. “Everyone in
Amara knows, and everyone in the tents. We know,
too, how many tents you have, how many servants, how
many camels, horses, dogs.”

He broke into a hearty laugh.

“We know what you’ve just had for dinner!”

Domini laughed too.

“Not really!”

“Well, I heard in the camp that it was soup
and stewed mutton. But never mind! You must
forgive us. We are barbarians! We are sand-rascals!
We are ruffians of the sun!”

His laugh was infectious. He leaned back in his
chair and shook with the mirth his own remarks had
roused.

“We are ruffians of the sun!” he repeated
with gusto. “And we must be forgiven everything.”

Although clad in a soutane he looked, at that moment,
like a type of the most joyous tolerance, and Domini
could not help mentally comparing him with the priest
of Beni-Mora. What would Father Roubier think
of Father Beret?

“It is easy to forgive in the sun,” Domini
said.

The priest laid his hands on his knees, setting his
feet well apart. She noticed that his hands were
not scrupulously clean.

“Madame,” he said, “it is impossible
to be anything but lenient in the sun. That is
my experience. Excuse me but are you a Catholic?”

“Yes.”

“So much the better. You must let me show
you the chapel. It is in the building with the
cupolas. The congregation consists of five on
a full Sunday.” His laugh broke out again.
“I hope the day after to-morrow you and your
husband will make it seven. But, as I was saying,
the sun teaches one a lesson of charity. When
I first came to live in Africa in the midst of the
sand-rascals—­eh; Madame!—­I suppose
as a priest I ought to have been shocked by their
goings-on. And indeed I tried to be, I conscientiously
did my best. But it was no good. I couldn’t
be shocked. The sunshine drove it all out of
me. I could only say, ’It is not for me
to question le bon Dieu, and le bon Dieu
has created these people and set them here in the